BERTRAM.And I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death anew;but I must attend his majesty's command, to whom I am now inward, evermore in subjection.

LAFEU.You shall find of the king a husband, madam; — you, sir, a father:he that so generally is at all times good, must of necessity holdhis virtue to you; whose worthiness would stir it up where itwanted, rather than lack it where there is such abundance.

COUNTESS.What hope is there of his majesty's amendment?

LAFEU.He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose practices hehath persecuted time with hope; and finds no other advantage inthe process but only the losing of hope by time.

COUNTESS.This young gentlewoman had a father — O, that 'had!' howsad a passage 'tis! — whose skill was almost as great as hishonesty; had it stretched so far, would have made natureimmortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, forthe king's sake, he were living! I think it would be the death ofthe king's disease.

LAFEU.How called you the man you speak of, madam?

COUNTESS.He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great rightto be so — Gerard de Narbon.

LAFEU.He was excellent indeed, madam; the king very lately spokeof him admiringly and mourningly; he was skilful enough to haveliv'd still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.

BERTRAM.What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?

LAFEU.A fistula, my lord.

BERTRAM.I heard not of it before.

LAFEU.I would it were not notorious. — Was this gentlewoman thedaughter of Gerard de Narbon?

COUNTESS.His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I havethose hopes of her good that her education promises; herdispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; forwhere an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, therecommendations go with pity, — they are virtues and traitors too:in her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives herhonesty, and achieves her goodness.

LAFEU.Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.

COUNTESS.'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. Theremembrance of her father never approaches her heart but thetyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. Nomore of this, Helena, — go to, no more, lest it be rather thoughtyou affect a sorrow than to have.

HELENA.I do affect a sorrow indeed; but I have it too.

LAFEU.Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead; excessive griefthe enemy to the living.

COUNTESS.If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soonmortal.

BERTRAM.Madam, I desire your holy wishes.

LAFEU.How understand we that?

COUNTESS.Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy fatherIn manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtueContend for empire in thee, and thy goodnessShare with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemyRather in power than use; and keep thy friendUnder thy own life's key: be check'd for silence,But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will,That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down,Fall on thy head! Farewell. — My lord,'Tis an unseason'd courtier; good my lord,Advise him.

LAFEU.He cannot want the bestThat shall attend his love.

COUNTESS.Heaven bless him! — Farewell, Bertram.

[Exit COUNTESS.]

BERTRAM.The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoughts [To HELENA.]be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress,and make much of her.

LAFEU.Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father.

[Exeunt BERTRAM and LAFEU.]

HELENA.O, were that all! — I think not on my father;And these great tears grace his remembrance moreThan those I shed for him. What was he like?I have forgot him; my imaginationCarries no favour in't but Bertram's.I am undone: there is no living, none,If Bertram be away. It were all oneThat I should love a bright particular star,And think to wed it, he is so above me:In his bright radiance and collateral lightMust I be comforted, not in his sphere.The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:The hind that would be mated by the lionMust die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,To see him every hour; to sit and drawHis arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,In our heart's table, — heart too capableOf every line and trick of his sweet favour:But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancyMust sanctify his relics. Who comes here?One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;And yet I know him a notorious liar,Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in himThat they take place when virtue's steely bonesLooks bleak i' the cold wind: withal, full oft we seeCold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.